


Taking off the Edge

by days_of_storm



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Annoyed John Watson, Grumpy John, Grumpy Sherlock, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, John-centric, Kinks, M/M, Minor Injuries, Pining, Restraints, Sexy Times, Sleepiness, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 11:53:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11126496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days_of_storm/pseuds/days_of_storm
Summary: Sherlock is injured and John has to do the work. Pun intended.





	Taking off the Edge

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy this.  
> After S4 I have not felt like writing at all - I fell out of love with a show that had meant so much to me for all these years. I'm trying to ease back into it, but S4 will never be canonical to me, as it is too all over the place and unfaithful to the initial character development and even its own genre etc. So yeah... all my stuff continues to be S1-3, ignoring that S4 ever existed. Not that this is relevant to this fic, which is just good old smutty fluff with a very lose connection to 'The Red Circle'. 
> 
> There will soon be a proper book/epub version of Red Lights Out. :)

John was tired to the bones when he finally closed the last book he had scanned for occurrences of five-syllable Latinates. He had carried several heavy boxes with books upstairs, unpacked them all and tried to place them close enough to the desk so he wouldn’t have to get up anytime soon, all the while Sherlock directed him from the couch. 

John reminded himself that being hit by a car and having sprained both ankles and his right wrist were good enough excuses to not help him in any physical way, but by that point he had stared at books for more than eight hours and his eyes were so dry that blinking hurt. 

He closed them and pressed the heels of his hands against them, rubbing carefully, moaning at the pain of it all. “I’m done,” he announced. 

“You read them all?” Sherlock sounded surprised and, with a grunt, raised his head a little, which stuck out of the top of a neck brace which the doctor had forced on him, just in case. John had told him to keep it on, no matter what, saying that he would never speak another word to him if his neck or spine were injured and he would purposefully risk long term consequences. So Sherlock had stopped arguing and kept it on.

“Of course not,” John turned around and blinked a couple of times. “But if I open one more book my eyes will shrivel up and fall out of my head.”

“John, that is utter …”

“Well, fuck you, Sherlock,” John shook his head, letting a couple of seconds pass before he rose and walked up to him. “I did not mean that … at least not … well, not quite like that.”

“But you also did not mean it in the preferable sense, did you?”

John chuckled and pushed at Sherlock until he had made enough room for John to join him on the couch. Sherlock grunted when he accidentally kicked his left leg and John sighed. “Why did you have to walk into that bloody car?”

“You know I did not mean to.”

“It will take forever until you are well again.”

“Why are you using so many hyperboles today?”

“Tonight. It is definitely tonight. If not tomorrow. Good god, why did I even look for those words?”

“Hidden messages. A newspaper article clearly was anything but that and I just know that there must be a system which they used …”

“Who’s they?”

“A London branch of the Sicilian mafia.”

“Oh, sure, because we really want to meddle with their affairs.”

“There’s only one affair I am interested in.”

“Why are you being so literal today?” John chuckled and closed his eyes. “God, I need to sleep.”

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“Can you help me to bed?”

“By help you mean carry you?”

“Well …”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“No.” John rolled off the couch and walked out of the living room and right into the bathroom, where he brushed his teeth, used the toilet and changed into a t-shirt and shorts before he made his way into the bedroom. He had half expected Sherlock to be in the bedroom, but he was nowhere to be seen.

“I am not carrying you,” he repeated.

Sherlock hobbled into the room, his expression thunderous. John had to turn away in order not to giggle at him, but he was too tired to really hide his amusement.

“You are laughing at my pain!” Sherlock complained with so much indignation in his voice that John bit his lip and sobered up. 

“I am laughing at your lack of agility, if you must know. I wonder if your being indisposed will make you a terrible partner to live with or a very pliant patient.” He got under the covers, watching Sherlock sway where he stood.

“I’m not your patient.”

“Ah, the former then.”

“I’m not … well … I’m not terrible,” Sherlock sniffed and sat down on the edge of the bed. “You get some sleep, John. Thank you for your help.”

John stared at him, his exhaustion forgotten. Had Sherlock really just said that or was he so tired that he had started hallucinating.

“Sherlock?” John asked carefully, sitting up again. He reached for his back. “I’m sorry.”

“Hmm?” Sherlock tried to turn around to look at him but was hindered by the neck brace.

“I did not mean to laugh at you. It’s just that you reminded me of those pictures on the internet where dog owners bring home their puppies and they wear the cone of shame and …”

“The cone of shame?”

“Well, the cone. So they don’t … well … lick their wounds.”

“I don’t have wounds.”

“Yes you do. I’m not implying that you tried to lick them, though. I’m just … tired and the image presented itself.”

Sherlock huffed and John wasn’t sure whether it was out of annoyance or amusement. “Go to sleep.”

“Do you need help?”

“I’m fine.”

“Hmm.” John gently ran his hand down his back and Sherlock leaned into his touch momentarily. 

Then Sherlock got up and slowly walked towards the bedroom without trying to look back. He was gone for long enough to worry John, but when he finally returned and very carefully lay down, John dared to move closer and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. 

“Anything I can do to make you feel better?”

“You are supposed to be sleeping.”

“Are you in pain?”

Sherlock frowned deeply at the ceiling instead of John, which made John grin despite himself. 

“Just twenty minutes ago you said you were so tired that your eyes were about to fall out of your head and now you …”

“Are you?”

“A little,” he sighed. “Not too much.”

John smiled and sneaked a hand under Sherlock’s t-shirt which he had worn since the hospital. He had not bothered taking it off and John knew that in the morning he would wash Sherlock and put fresh clothes on him. But for now he couldn’t care less. 

Sherlock’s breath hitched when John moved up and down his stomach. “S’that okay?”

“No.”

“Sure?”

“No.” Sherlock’s left hand settled on his, trapping him for a second. “More.”

“Hmm?” John wanted to make sure that he had understood correctly.

“More, please.”

John bit his lip and then sat up to be able to kiss him before he let his hand wander south. “This is a bit like having you tied up,” he murmured against Sherlock’s ear, tugging a few curls out from under his brace. Sherlock shuddered involuntarily. 

John pushed his hand past Sherlock’s waistband and sought out the heat between his legs, smiling when he found him hard already. “Is that what you want?” he asked, wrapping his fingers around him carefully. 

“Hmm,” Sherlock tried to nod but gave up with a frustrated sigh.

“Can you do this without moving your neck?” John asked, worried now that he could sense that Sherlock would strain against his brace, possibly hurting himself. 

“Fuck!” Sherlock said emphatically, once more trapping John’s hand with his. “Of course I can’t.”

“Not today, then?”

Sherlock twitched against his palm and whined in frustration. “You just made it all so much worse,” he grunted, pressing up his hips. 

“You could try not to move?” John suggested, mentally playing back the hundreds of times he had seen Sherlock come. Not a single time had he been still while coming. 

“No, John, I really can’t. Not after what you said.”

John smiled and kissed him again. “The great Sherlock Holmes can work for days without eating, can perform super human feats in terms of logic and observation and some weird version of martial arts. He can tell every last detail about you just by looking at you. But suggest to him that he is tied up and he will strain against his fetters, even if they are just imaginary.”

“Oh shut up, John.”

“It’s a tiny bit sexy, though.”

“A tiny bit, huh?” Sherlock pressed his hips up again. 

“Wait, you are just as turned on by this as I am?”

“Fuck you, John.”

“Not today,” John said again with a grin. 

Sherlock plucked John’s hand out of his pyjama bottoms and gave a long suffering sigh. “Not today.”

In the morning, John found that he simply did not have time to enjoy washing Sherlock, but he had to leave him to his own devices as he was needed in the clinic. Once he returned, Sherlock had found a lead and called in not only Lestrade but someone from MI6 who appeared to have once played cricket with Mycroft, as far as John could tell from the little conversation they had in the living room, before all books were repacked and carried out of the flat. 

Once they were gone and Sherlock had been assured to have been of great help indeed and to please let it rest now, he closed his eyes and fell asleep immediately. 

During the next week John patiently suffered Sherlock’s boredom as Lestrade refused to give him cases and nothing else seemed to come up. On the seventh day, however, Sherlock was allowed to take off the brace and to walk around a little more. That night, when John went to bed, Sherlock sat cross-legged on the bed, still wet from the shower, naked and hard, the brace on the mattress next to him. 

“Tonight,” Sherlock said with a tone in his voice that made it clear to John that he would not accept a negative reply. 

“If you feel up for it?” John started to undress. 

Sherlock looked at his cock and smirked. “Definitely up for it.” Then he stretched his neck carefully before putting the brace back on. “Do your worst.”

John wasn’t quite sure why it was so exhilarating to get Sherlock off like that, but he was more responsive than usual, and more vocal, and when he finally came, he came so hard that he fell off the bed. 

Thankfully, he did not injure himself again apart from a few bruises, but, upon Sherlock’s insistence that they go again, John made sure to hold him down on the bed when he came a second time. 

The next day, Sherlock was gone early and the brace disappeared from their household, but from that day on, every now and then, when Sherlock had been particularly strung, he would take John’s hand and carefully place it against his neck – not to choke him, but to hold him down during sex. And every time John complied Sherlock came harder than usual and was in a much better mood than he would usually be after a frustrating day. 

Even Lestrade noticed that Sherlock had become less offensive in general, but whenever he raised the topic, Sherlock would make sure to hurl abuse at him so that he eventually gave up asking. 

And only John knew, thanks to Sherlock’s accident and all the frustration that had come with it, that he was now able to take the edge off simply by restraining Sherlock.


End file.
